A Writer's Journey

Let it sink in.

They told me that taking ecstasy was like taking a pill of happy. It just makes you feel good. Everything feels good. Make sure to rub the cushion of a soft couch. And sex is amazing (they grin and whisper).

I mentioned in my last post that I think the ecstasy leveled out my depressive state. A bit of a creative exaggeration, but not much. I also smoke a lot of weed and took just one tab. Who knows. My friend asked me when it hit and I just kept shrugging.

At first I told her I was dropping her off and promptly driving home to cry. Then I was convinced to stay. We adventured around. In Savannah I get to barhop because we can carry around beers in togo cups. So all night we jumped from place to place.
“What are we looking for?”
I intentionally meant that to be deeper. “It’s a metaphor for our lives.”
We went looking for a place. Always unsatisfied. Order a drink and take it to the streets. Sometimes I just enjoy that.

My battery is at 0% mentally. I usually operate in an obnoxiously optimistic manner but have lately been funked. As the night has gone on, many hits from hidden dugouts, a few beers, a lot good people, and dancing, I feel recharged.

I lost my phone charger. Third one in a month. I’m sitting in my car recharging my phone and my mind.

I feel my skin. The skin stretched over bone. I danced in clubs until last call and I feel human beings all over me. I don’t want to go in and shower. I want to sit and feel this.

I read in Wikipedia that ecstasy heightens your senses. I feel heightened, enlightened, still… nothing too excitin’. I’m feeling the last effects and I think I’ll keep it. My own little slice of happiness. It’s all I need. I’ll take it and no one will notice. When the drug goes away I’ll snicker because I stole some of its good good feeling.

(They can have rubbing their fingers over surfaces and sex. They’d miss that. No, I’ll take this.)